Short Stories

The Dove

By Reghan Libby

     "The world has changed. Every sign of equality has fleeted miles away. It has become another one of those horrific periods of time. An era that I never thought I'd be alive to see. I'm writing to you in this journal, that I'm being forced to fill in for the next 30 days that I am locked up, in attempt to 'straighten me out'. The Russians (outside of Moscow, because they just don't care,) barged in and crashed our party. God forbid we can openly love and be ourselves, without people worrying about weather or not the person waiting for me at home, is a male or female.

     It was the middle of the day, on March 13th 2025. I was taking part in a pride event at Victory Park, while my parents were away for vacation — when we were attacked. The area flooded with suffocating clouds of black smoke, and the loud sound of sirens sent me into shock. I thought I was having a heart attack. That's all I can remember from before I blacked out.

     Now, I'm siting here on the cold concrete, that is also my bed, kitchen table, and only source of entertainment. I suppose I could draw, or write poetry to pass my time, but I am still too shaken to really focus on anything." My hand began to grow cramped from writing so quickly. My head fell back against the wall, and I let out a deep sigh.

     "Can I have some water?" I asked, my gaze rolling to the door of the cell. "I may be gay, but I'm still human. I still get thirsty." I tried to make a joke out of the situation, but failed miserably. It was my sixth day locked up in this prison. I was hungry, and my stomach continuously rumbled. My throat was dry, and my tongue was starting to stick to the roof of my mouth from lack of moisture.

     "I guess so." Replied a man who sat on the other side of the door. He got up slowly, straightening out his jacket. I could hear his keys clanking against each other as he walked away, only to return moments later.

     I considered myself lucky. The guard chosen to keep an eye on me, seemed like one of the nicest around. He was nothing like the other fowl mouthed officers that I came across a couple days before. He spoke to me with little compassion, yet I couldn't hear any hatred in his voice. From cells across from mine, I heard fighting, and words like "fag", "disgusting" and "die" thrown around like knives, in attempt to get prisoners to 'confess to their sins' out of fright. When we were first captured, the homophobic Russians had told us that we would be brutally killed for our lifestyles. They said we would burn if we didn't change our ways. In only twenty-four more days, that could have been me. I wasn't quite sure how the whole event even made sense, or how it would work out, which must have been the reason it didn't seem to scare me out of my true identity.

     The guard opened my cell quickly, holding a plastic cup of water out to me. His free hand gripped the dark, steel rods of the door, his knuckles turning red from holding on so hard. I could tell why. He was ready to lock me in quickly, if I tried to make a run for it. I wasn't trying to get myself killed, so I just simply pushed myself up off the ground, onto my feet, and took the water from him. I made sure my fingertips didn't graze his. Raising the thick rim of the cup to my lips, I took a small drink, and gave him a nod, instead of verbally thanking him. I stood still in my tracks, so he knew I wasn't planning on trying to escape. I didn't want anymore trouble than there already was. I would do whatever I could, to never have to confront one of the men sent from Hell. Exiting my room, he locked it back up and shoved his key ring back into his pocket.

     "What's your name?" I asked him, figuring it would be better to try and make light conversation. During the five previous days, we had only spoken a few, occasional words to each other. Maybe he'd be a nice guy. I slid down against the stone wall, pulling my shirt down so it wouldn't crinkle up and expose my bare back to the cold.
I sat crosslegged, staring out the doorway. He craned his neck over his shoulder to peer in at me. The look on his face wasn't one of disgust, or superiority.